


What You Make Of It

by Rokutagrl



Series: Taishiro Week 2018 [1]
Category: Digimon - All Media Types, Digimon Adventure, Digimon Adventure Zero Two | Digimon Adventure 02
Genre: Family, Fluff, Friends & Family, M/M, Moving In Together, Taishiro Week 2018, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, prompt: family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 06:03:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13874694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rokutagrl/pseuds/Rokutagrl
Summary: It's a lesson learned in time. Twenty-seven years to be exact.





	What You Make Of It

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Taishiro Day 1. Prompt: Family.

“Koushirou, honey?”

Koushirou stops his movements at the sound of his mother’s soft cooing. She stands in the frame of his doorway, the hallway to her back dark and still. He reaches blindly for the tape gun at his side, humming an acknowledgement.

She raps her pointer finger against the wooden frame, nervously. Koushirou doesn’t have to look to know. It’s a habit she adopted about the time he was seven. Twenty years had not been long enough to kick it.

_Tap, tap, tap_

“Would you like to watch a movie with me?” Her voice is soft, low. He almost misses it under the pull of tape as it rips through the mechanism. A full day of the noise still rings in his eardrums.

_Tap, tap, tap_

_Rrr, rrr, rrr_

“When you’re done, of course,” she adds. “I can wait up.”

“Just a nano!” Koushriou secures the tape over the side of the box once more, then doubles back over the thinner sections.

 _Rrrr rrr rrr._ Again, _rrr, rrr, rrr._

An awful noise.

_Tap, tap, tap_

He used to feel his mother’s eyes on the back of his head, when she’d sit and wait for him, but he does not feel it now. Instead she comments, “It’ll be different,” in an elusive tone, eyes soaking in the remnants of his room. Empty. It hasn’t been that way since they moved in, years ago.

Koushirou plops the tape gun off to his side and stands, knees protesting all the way, to join his mother in the entrance room. She looks alarmed when he clicks off the light. From down the hall, the television glows, their only source of sight now. It catches in the side of her eyes, a soft blue, and he thinks it makes them look like crystals–fragile.  

“Is that alright?” She asks, blinking up at him. He doesn’t remember, exactly, when he’d gotten taller than her.

“The guys got most of it earlier.” He cracks a quick smile. “I just waited to pack the more fragile items myself.”

“I see…” She nods, but does not move. Her eyes look upon him now, rolling slowly, as if she’s committing every difference, every nuance to memory like she had his room.

*

His mother pats the cushion next to her. Koushirou sits a comfortable distance away, her gaze following his profile. Wide, concerned, glassy. White light envelopes her from the television, the melody of the menu screen looping incessantly through the silence.

He knows this one. An alien thriller. He’s watched it over about ten times now, since his father took him on opening day as a child.

His mother prefers romance and corny comedies. Even better if they’re combined.

“Do you want something to drink? Should I make popcorn?” He shakes his head as she thumbs the play button. When she puts it down, it’s very deliberately to cover an old wine stain that’s settled into the paisley pattern of the arm rest years ago.

Koushirou slouches into the plush pillows. They give so easily into his body weight, and the fray among their edges is extensive where he habitually plays with the shredded fabric. It’s quite old now, a hand me down from his grandparents. They used to keep plastic on it in their house. It’d been pristine then. Koushirou’s father had made the executive decision that wear and tear was a minimal price to pay for comfort and cushions that didn’t squeak when you sat on them.

He remembers sitting here at seven, while his mother distracted herself from folding laundry with soap operas. She liked his company, even when he never said a word. He had loved it, when he was six.

“So unrealistic,” she would says, clicking her tongue at the scene. Still, she left it on. Koushirou hadn’t been paying attention for months now, but he could easily pick up the story. Over a cliffside, a woman held the hands of both of her children. She could only save one, a cruel ultimatum between the life of her daughter, who had just been ousted a serial killer, or her ivy league son she had adopted in a prior arc.

On this couch, his mother, weeping in to her hands, unwittingly confessed to him he wasn’t her real son.

As if she senses his thoughts, his mother shifts closer to him, long, bony fingers clutching over his. It feels like something pricks at his heart; guilt.

Eyes on the screen, her mouth pulls tight and thin. Time weighs heavy on her face, like a bookmark of every worry that’s crossed her mind. Somehow, he has ignored them until now, his mind freezing an image of her the way she’d always looked. Youthful, soft, impenetrable to the same ravages of nature as the rest of the world.

But he is not blind, for this one second, and so he wonders over them. There might be a wrinkle for every time he has given her a moment to fret for his safety, his life. Those have been plentiful.

“I’m really, really going to miss you, dear,” she starts. “I’m excited for this new part of your life–and I trust you, Koushirou. I really do. But you’ll always be my baby…I can’t help that.” Her eyes are dewey, pixelated flecks of light rebounding in the corner of her eyes.  

“You’re always welcome here,” she adds in quickly. “You know that, right?”

Parents in his mother’s soaps always chose their offspring.

Her fingers tighten over his as if she’s telling him, _Don’t worry. I’m not letting you go_. He squeezes back.

“I know, mom.”

*

Their footsteps echo in the chrome finished lobby, everything simplistic and modern. Koushirou’s mother examines the little bouquet of flowers on the side table just inside. A petal flutters to the table under her touch and she smiles back at Koushirou, sheepishly.

“They’re fabric,” she says, rubbing a sturdier petal between her fingers and humming. “Very welcoming.”

“Just beautiful,” Koushriou’s father agrees. He lets out a quick whistle and it reverberates through the room.

When a white truck pulls up to the curb just outside, he runs out to greet them, waving his arms and chatting animatedly. Koushirou’s never seen him so sociable before. His father, dressed in a crisp sweater vest and beige slacks, is a stark contrast to the movers in their dirty overalls and red, sweaty faces, but he lines up to collect a few of the smaller boxes with a group of them.

“I’ve never seen that man lift more than a dinner plate,” his mother giggles. Her fingers are cool when they rest on his forearm, her other hand touching to her lips in amusement.

“Yeah,” Koushirou agrees.

“He wants so much to help you,” she continues. They hold the doors open, letting the procession of men through. His father is the last, red in the face, but he struggles through a smile when he looks at Koushirou, and well–it’s touching, honestly.

Getting the boxes into his apartment takes hardly any time. They pile in rooms and corners at Koushirou’s direction and soon his mother is tipping the men with a long smile and his father lays on the plush carpet, huffing and sweaty.

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll be ready to help more,” he promises. Koushirou shares a look with his mother. They give him thirty.

They stumble about in the dark for a while until his mother pushes back the blinds to the balcony door. Unbidden now, the soft morning rays lean over the rail and paint the corner in natural lights and shadows. “It looks more cheerful,” she declares. The morning rays sit softly on her face.

It’s not until about noon that the front door eases open, filtering in heavy conversations and laughs. Taichi comes through first before either of his parents follow, precariously balancing a box over the crown of his head. He pushes another with the ball of his foot until it catches on the raised step that separates the foyer to the living room.

“Hey! Morning!” Taichi greets. He pads over to where Koushirou and his father are removing the contents of one of his computer boxes to set up in the den. He leans over and pecks a soft kiss to the side of Koushirou’s mouth, then shakes his father’s hand.  

“Do the mover’s need help?” Koushirou’s father asks. Taichi looks at him, perplexed.

“Movers?”

“Oh dear,” his mother frets. “Don’t tell me you couldn’t find anyone available, Taichi. We could have had our guys drop by your place on the way. There was plenty of room.”

“Oh don’t worry, I was able to find help.” Taichi beams.

Help comes by not too long later in the form of grumbles and heaves. Yamato drops a stack of boxes in the middle of the room. One falls off the pile and brandishes a sea of comics and posters. Taichi frowns at the mess.

Sora and Jyou filter in next, heaving and sweating as they drop their loads. Behind them, Hikari and Takeru shoulder duffel bags and frumpled expressions.

“It feels like you weighed it down with bowling balls,” Takeru huffs, letting the bag crash to the floor by the door.

“It’s not that heavy,” Taichi sniffs.

“You didn’t have to take the stairs up twelve flights.” Hikari let’s the one on her shoulder slump over the other. She sounds out of breath.

“You should have waited for the elevator, ” their father cuts in, frowning.   
  
It takes another trip for everyone involved before it seems like most everything has been dumped into the main room.

“Should be the last of it,” Sora breathes. She swipes her forehead with the back of her hand. “If it’s not, I’m just going to auction the rest of it right out of the truck.”

“That was the last of it,” Jyou confirms. “I’ll be back,” he tells everyone else with a sheepish smile. “I gotta return the truck by one or we forfeit the deposit. And my car.”

“Thanks, Jyou,” Taichi’s mother says from the floor.

“You’re a trooper, buddy! Thanks!” Taichi says. He shoots Jyou a thumbs up from where he’s taken to reaffixing his rumpled box.

“You’re the best,” Yamato follows beside him, signing Jyou off with a quick salute.

Sora kneels beside Koushirou. “It feels like a shame to open all these boxes when we just closed them last night,” she sighs. She slaps her thighs and gives a determined smile. “What do you need me to do?” Koushirou smiles back at her, gratefully.

It takes Taichi and Yamato longer than necessary to finish their reorganizing, especially when their incessant squabbling causes another box to burst with it’s contents.

“Look,” Yamato says, cooly, “I’m helping you unpack faster. You’re _welcome_!”

“It’s much livelier now,” Koushirou’s mother says. There’s a sparkle in her eyes he hasn’t seen in months.

It must be his imagination, but the room feels brighter even for all the bodies standing in it, lighting even the corners neglected by the natural rays from the windows.

They’ve just about finished putting most of the kitchen items away when they hear Jyou trip through the front door hours later. There’s an extra clip to his step that sounds unnatural.

Sora had goaded Taichi and Takeru to help her hang curtains along the living room– custom pieces of recycled fabric as a gift from her and her mother on their new place–when the metal beam clanks to the floor. It bounces hollowly, the sound ringing in Koushirou’s ears. Silence follows instead of shrieking. 

"Is everyone alright?“ Taichi’s mother asks, clambering through the galley kitchen first to check. The rest of them follow, worriedly,  bumping into her when she stops short. Their father’s come in from the balcony, where they’d been chatting on a quick break. 

"I brought back a friend to help,” Jyou says. His face colors at all the attention.

Over his back, Mimi Tachikawa waves, her heels clicking harshly as she bounces excitedly on the tips of her cowboy boots. 

“Oh my God!” Sora squeals first. She bounds across the room, hues of blues and purple and golds rippling behind her. Koushirou notices for the first time the little embroidered crests dotting along the curtains fabric in gold stitches–knowledge, friendship, love , courage, hope… all of them. The fabric wraps about her, bunching and dressing the two women as they embrace. 

“I missed you!” They shout simultaneously. 

“I thought you had a taping in America?” Taichi asks, enveloping Mimi in a hug as soon she’s free of fabric. 

Yamato follows up with a hug of his own as Mimi chirps, ”There was a layover delay!“ Her eyes shine when she scoops Koushirou into her arms and squeezes tightly, rocking them both before she pulls Hikari into her grasp next. "I wanted to be here.” 

They widdle away the late afternoon unpacking as many boxes the twelve of them can get to, stuffing them in appropriate drawers or rooms. Mimi takes over organizing the placement of what little furniture they own, tutting and pointing Yamato and Taichi in different directions, the weight of the couch dipping between them. Koushirou’s pleasantly surprised how well the square footage holds all of them, shuffling and sorting about the place. 

Jyou helps him open the bedroom door when Koushirou struggles with the handle, juggling a stray box of Taichi’s clothes. His eyes notice the unopened air mattress package leaning on the far wall and Jyou frowns at it like it’s presence offends him. 

“You know air mattresses aren’t very good for you,” he starts, fixing his glasses. Koushirou rolls his eyes at the wall, fondly. “You can’t regulate your body temperature, not to mention if you’re sleeping with a partner how much sleep that can disrupt. And for some people it can exacerbate back issues…” 

“It’s just until we buy a larger mattress,” Koushirou says. “And frame.” 

Jyou’s frown deepens. “When will that be? Look, I have a spare futon at home from my brother. I’ll bring it over tomorrow before my shift.”

Koushirou stares back at him for a moment, then slowly smiles. “Alright, Jyou. Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it.” Jyou’s lips finally quirk upwards, mirroring Koushirou’s. “If it’s for your health, it’s important.” 

*

Koushriou finds Mimi on the deck as everything winds down. It’s big enough out here for perhaps a love seat and a table, but no more than three or four people aside that. Taichi has plans for a barbeque set in one of the corners. It’s a someday down the line dream.

The wind sweeps through Mimi’s curls and she stretches audibly. Her hair is a vibrant swirl of reds and yellows. He thinks last time he saw her, it might have been blue. Maybe purple.

“Planes leave me so stiff!” She complains. “But this view is so rejuvenating. I need to come back to Odaiba more often.” 

As twilight rolls over the island, the two of them catch up. Work, friends, anything that comes to mind. Mimi motions to the tarp hanging over the left side of the balcony, the one eyesore in an otherwise lovely place.

"The previous owners didn’t fix the railing on that side,“ Koushirou explains. "They were supposed to before we closed on the place, but it’ll be a hassle now to get them to do it. We’ll probably have to save up for a while and get a quote… but it is almost winter, so–”

"Oh,“ Mimi huffs over him, stomping her slipper on the concrete. He imagines it would have more impact had she still been wearing her heels. "What absolute nonsense."

She fishes into the pocket of her jeans and tugs out her phone. "Don’t worry. I have an uncle who owns a construction company. I’ll give you his number. Just tell him I sent you and we can get this whole mess sorted out lickety-split like, okay?” 

Mimi clicks her tongue and types away at her phone. “Wah-la!” She cries as her phone signals a sent text. After a mild delay, his phone acknowledges the receipt with a baritone ding. 

"Call him immediately,“ she instructs,  wiggling a finger at him. "He’ll take care of it. And let me know when he does.” She claps her hands together and makes a sweet, gushy face. “He’s a huge fan of my spaghetti creole. I’ll just whip him up a pan as thanks!"

"Mimi… we still have to procure furniture, we can’t really afford construction right now–”

“I said don’t worry,” Mimi huffs, waving her hand dismissively. “He’s my uncle. Family takes care of family. It’s the Tachikawa way, of course!” She winks at him and leans gently on the part of the railing still fastened to the balcony, resting her chin in the fold of her arms. The sunset drapes across the brim of her hat, touches up the red highlights in her curls. Mimi’s hair is never the same, but the girl herself doesn’t change. 

Koushirou’s glad of it. 

"Thank you.“

"So you know, I do have an aunt who’s a lawyer."

*  
When the sun dips just over the back line of the bay, someone knocks on their door. 

"That must be the rest of the guys,” Takeru says, thumbing through his phone. “They must have gotten in on their own cause none of them texted me."

"Who’s hungry?” Miyako sings as soon as the door swings open. She, Iori, Ken and Daisuke crowd the foyer all at once, each of them carrying about the length of their arms in pizza boxes. 

"We got here as soon as we could,“ Iori says as Koushirou takes his burden so he can tug off his coat. "We decided to pick up dinner for everyone. After Daisuke got us lost.”

"Iori, we agreed–!“ 

"Sorry,” Ken apologizes. “One of your neighbors let us in when they saw all of this.” He smiles graciously at Sora when she comes by to relieve him of his stack of boxes and bundle of paper plates. 

Ken digs through his pockets a second later and pulls out his phone. With quick fingers he opens the lock screen and hands it over to Koushirou. “I figured the internet might not be up yet, but I should have enough data for this for a while.” 

"For what?“ Taichi asks, coming up beside Koushirou when Daisuke beckons him and everyone else closer.

"Koushirou-han!” A muffled, grainy voice greets him. A pixelated ladybug sits on the front of Ken’s phone screen. 

“Greetings, Tentomon!"

Next to Tentomon, a yellow dinosaurs shouts, "Taichi!"

"Hey buddy!” Taichi exclaims, plucking the phone from Koushirou’s grasp. “How are you doing?” He tilts the screen on an angle so that Koushirou and some of the others can see it.

Agumon and Tentomon’s little avatars throw their hands up and down, their squished animations bouncing as they talk over each other excitedly about the digital world. Mimi cuts in with questions about Palmon and Sora asks them to give Biyomon a hug for her. Yamato asks after Gabumon and the rest of their friends throw out questions about their partners as if it’s been years and not days since they’ve all been together.

Koushirou fears for a while that the noise will split his ears or the calamity will alert their new neighbors, but finally Taichi suggests a miniature apartment tour and it tones down. 

"Looks great, Taichi,“ Agumon comments.

"The boxes are a nice aesthetic choice. Very… rugged,” Tentomon adds. Koushirou laughs. “Congratulations on the new abode."

"You’re welcome as soon as we get a portal ready,” Taichi says, smiling. The two digimon cheer and say their farewells as the phone dies.

“Miyako and Iori helped me set it up,” Ken explains. He adds, “and Daisuke,” after a strangled noise of protest from said boy.

Taichi’s mom sniffs at one of the pizza towers on the kitchen table. “Are any of these organic?”

They gather on a bare patch of the living room rug, stretching out in a long oval and sitting together, criss-crossed, until their knees touched. There’s no lack of laughter or chatter, some of them holding conversations from completely different ends. Mimi and Sora make a show from their positions at the farthest points of reaching their hands out to one from across the room, mock bemoaning the tragedies of life.

Koushirou wonders if they make dining room tables big enough and how much they might cost. 

The younger digidestined bow out after dinner winds down,  citing morning classes or work. They give hugs in long lines, and finally Koushirou sees them to the door while Taichi helps their father’s break down the pizza boxes and trash. 

“How much do we owe you?” Koushirou asks.

“About a million yen.” Iori and Miyako snort behind him, wrestling on their coats.

Koushirou frowns. “Honestly?” Daisuke looks at him, then over Koushirou’s shoulder, considering.

“Tell me something.” Daisuke is always blunt, demanding. It’s not a trait Koushirou can say he hates, exactly. “Are you happy?” 

That question takes him by surprise. “Yes,” he manages. His throat feels thick with the pulse of his heart when he swallows. He’s not sure happy contains enough sentiment. 

“Great,” Daisuke says, beaming, patting his shoulder harshly. Ken follows suit with a long smile. “Taichi is, too. I can tell. That’s payment enough, man.” 

"Or we can work out a monthly installation plan for the million,“ Iori quips. 

Fond laughter follows them out the door and then Hikari and Takeru take their leave as well. They flank Koushirou into a pocket of warmth between both of their arms and wish him a goodnight with a promise to return after school to help more. Hikari fists the rubber head of a triceratops keychain into her coat pocket, keys clanking dimly together. 

He notices the group of loud looking rubber dinosaur busts lined on the breakfast bar after that. Each of them hooks around a set of keys, definitely to Taichi’s tastes. Koushirou smiles.

He notices his mother starring at the line up, too, one of her fingers running through the divet of one of their mouths, tracing the negative space between their pointed teeth. Her lips twitch. 

Yamato, Sora, Jyou and Mimi take off not too long after. Mimi says goodbye in more theatrics than her greetings, eyes teary and nose running. 

"I’ll come by again soon,” she promises. Luggage Koushirou hadn’t noticed earlier pushes against her legs. “Dont forget to call him,” she tells Koushirou sternly, then wails intensely, pulling him to her shoulder and grabbing for Taichi on the way. 

Taichi drops something into her hand. Another keychain, Koushirou notices.  A Saurolophus this time. Mimi cries again.

"Don’t lose it,“ Taichi tells her. 

"We can be by again tomorrow to help,” Sora says. “I’ll text you guys when we’re on the way. Let us know if you don’t get out for groceries!” 

"Me too,“ Jyou adds. "I’ll bring the futon we were talking about, Koushirou.” 

“Sweet!” Taichi exclaims. He gives them each their own rubber straps of keys. A pterodactyl for Sora, an Apatosaurus for Jyou. Yamato gets a Velociraptor of his own. 

“See you tomorrow,” Yamato waves down the hall, grinning. 

Taichi leans in against Koushirou’s side, warm and soothing. Even when their friends have disappeared out of their line of sight, they stay in the front hall for a while yet. They’ve been around each other all day, but it feels like the first moment they’ve really gotten together and Koushirou revels in the soft, quietness of it. They could be moving in to the assortment of boxes rather than an apartment, and Koushirou thinks he’d be just as content so long as Taichi was there, at his side. 

“Yamato said we can call him when we buy furniture and he’ll help us move it in.” His voice sounds softer than usual, as if he’s careful to not shatter the moment. Taichi’s hand finds the small of his back. Koushirou latches his arm around Taichi’s waist and they fit together, so nicely. 

“That’s kind of him,” Koushirou hums, just as soft in his reply. “I thought you said you were only making keys for your family, Taichi.” 

Taichi blinks down at him. “I did."

"We’re beat!” Taichi’s mother exclaims, meeting them in the hallway with her coat already draped on her shoulders. Her eyes sag with the truth of her statement. her husband, also dressed and ready, yawns behind her. 

“Thank you for helping today.” He’s not sure if his voice is soft still because of the previous mood, but if the Yagami’s notice any discomfort they don’t hesitate for it. 

"Of course, honey!“ Taichi’s mother says, pulling him tightly to her. She pushes him back to look in his face, eyes pinched. "I know you boys are busy with work and all the moving, so just let me know if you’re struggling getting all your nutrients met, ok? Oh, I could cone over and teach you boys how to cook!” 

Over the crown of her head, Taichi and his father make mirroring looks of horror, shaking their hands. 

“We’ll consider it, Mrs. Yagami.”

"Call me mom, honey," she says, hugging him again tightly. Koushirou flushes. 

“Let us know if you need anything,” Taichi’s dad offers, kindly. He leaves with a fond smile and a quick pat on Koushirou’s shoulder. 

“I’ll see you out!” Taichi calls, ducking into the house for his coat. Down the hall, while waiting for the elevator, Koushirou sees him hand his mother something. No doubt, yet another group of keys and hideous, rubber dinosaur head. Koushirou rolls his eyes and heads back in to help his parents wipe down counters and sweep up. 

“It’s getting pretty late,” Koushirou’s father says, eyes flitting over his wrist watch. 

His mother bites her lip. “Taichi hasn’t come back yet,” she says, softly. Her eyes dart to the breakfast bar and back. “I feel bad leaving without saying goodbye.”

"He’ll understand,“ Koushirou assures her. "We might even run into on the way down.”

His boyfriend is absent from the elevator, and missing in the lobby. Koushirou’s father offers to bring the car around and leaves after a quick hug and promise to see each other soon. 

His mother lingers beside him. Her perfume is faint and flowery, the way he remembers it since he was a child. Her favorite scent, a gift he’d gone and picked out with his father for her birthday. 

She touches his arm gently, fingers warm and comforting. “You’ve surrounded yourself with such lovely people, dear."

Koushirou smiles, his heart swelling. "I know."

His father honks the horn as he drives up to the front of the entrance way, waving through the window to his wife.  In the pool of light on the complexes stoop, his mother stands and stares back at him, expression torn between different extremes. He thinks this moment will leave another wrinkle on her face and the guilt tugs on his heart. 

"Give Taichi our love. Tell him we’re sorry to have missed him.” They meet over the threshold for a hug and then she waves another goodbye. 

She barely leaves the step when the elevator dings. The door slides open and Taichi gives a quick call of, “Wait!” His mother’s expression is tight when she looks back, stops and about faces. Her shoulders sit more staunch. Koushirou recognizes the way she holds herself together just before she lets go. 

Taichi stops short, cruising the rest of the distance to the door on momentum and the slide of his socks on tiles. He skips over the metal frame and meets Koushirou’s mother in the halo of lights. Between them, he offers a set of keys and a smile. “This one’s for you,” Taichi tells her.  When it plops into her hands, a gaudy rubber t-rex strap drops over the brim of her palm. In the lights, her eyes gleam to look upon it. “Use it whenever.” 

She looks to him first, pensive. Koushirou beams back at her. His mother grabs for her own house keys and clips the new ones into the metal bouquet of chains.

“On Sunday,” she starts, looking up at Taichi this time. Her voice catches for a second and she clears her throat. “Next Sunday, let’s have a dinner together. All of us again, like tonight.” Her smile is rich, golden. Taichi returns it with ease. 

His father honks the horn and his mother motions she’ll be with him soon. Knowing better, his father kills the engine.

When Koushirou was seven, he’d wanted a family. One he belonged to, was tied down to by blood.

His mother, blindly, reaches for his hand, squeezes tightly. Taichi looks at him every once in a while, sweetly, lovingly. He thinks about promises and favors, an apartment full of laughter and affection.

Koushirou is twenty seven and, he likes to believe, much wiser, more aware, but the intensity crashes over him like an undertow still. Somehow, he’d found one– or rather, they had found _him_ , bound him down by something a little thicker, a little deeper than genetics:

_Love._


End file.
